Monthly Archives: January 2012

How I wish I could see your rosebud lips. To be banished from your society is to be under the ground. My lady, clear my name of bad deeds and I will spend the rest of my earthly days repaying your kindness. Never, will you want for jewels or spices. Your feet will always wear the most comfortable slippers, your neck the reddest ruby. Take heed, my lady, if I am to be kept away from court, never will I be able to offer you the finery my magick can offer.

My lady, a raven, the largest and blackest that you have ever seen, sits upon my arm awaiting my orders. His beak is a cutting blade, his talons made for splicing. The raven’s name is Ravensmite and he will be your pet, if you do as I ask. My lady, before you throw this letter down with a sneer, let me offer you a special intelligence about the bird. He can change into a grown boy in seconds. He will be your faithful servant and your guard. All you have to do is regain my favour with HER again. Do this and you will have more power and riches than you ever dreamed possible.

My lady, on the matter of why I have been banished – have you yet discovered the traitor with the murderous heart who dirtied my name? When the deceitful rogue’s name is brought to me, I will shrink him to the size of a seahorse and imprison him in a pebble forever. His tongue will run away with him so that no man, woman, boy or girl will ever befriend him again. His stone prison will live on a sandy beach, always, he will go in and out with the raging tide. The noise of the sea will torment his ears forever as the words of banishment have tormented mine.

Like this:

Sales of the Groaningsea Gazette have almost doubled since Groaningsea’s premier crime correspondent, Ambrose Pimple, uncovered the mob in our mist! Residents were so shocked at the threat to their beloved seaside town that they have joined forces against crime with the Groaningsea Gazette. The local people have banded together to form R.A.T. – residents against terror. The chairlady is Mrs Croak. In an exclusive interview by Ambrose Pimple, Mrs Croak warns criminals:

“The residents of Groaningsea are respectable folks. We will not put up with the underworld trying to spoil our beautiful town. My teenage son, Elvis, known to his mates as The Toad, will be on watch during the early evening. Anyone caught doing anything, anything whatsoever, will be done. Us Croaks don’t take to criminals, especially ones as we don’t know.”

Further action has been taken by the local librarians who also represent R.A.T. They are closeting the latest telescopic umbrellas under the returns desk. Anyone stepping out of line will feel the force of Mrs Chalk’s umbrella, be stamped on the forehead and get a fine.

We want local residents to rest assured that they can count upon the Groaningsea Gazette to join forces with R.A.T. in the fight against crime. Top crime correspondent, Ambrose Pimple, will be available anytime and anywhere – that is Monday –Friday (9a.m. to 5p.m. within the Groaningsea area.

Gobber’s Joke Shop has graced Groaningsea’s back streets since anyone can remember. Gobber is Groaningsea and Groaningsea is Gobber. We have to ask ourselves why is Groaningsea, and now Gobber, being targeted by the mob?

To understand the intensity of this crime we must realise that it is not one single crime which Gobber has been victim of but a catalogue of them. Regular readers will remember Ambrose Pimple, head crime consultant of the Groaningsea Gazette, dutifully reporting how Gobber suffered crime in the past. For new readers of the Groaningsea Gazette, who we hope will become regular readers, let me explain.

Being the principle joke shop owner of Groaningsea, well actually, he’s the only joke shop owner of Groaningsea, Gobber feels it is his duty to be a role model to his young customers. As fresh air and exercise is the order of the day for a healthy mind and body, Gobber does a daily jaunt on the promenade. Gobber’s celebrity status in this small town means that during the school holidays he is accompanied by his fans spurring him on.

On the unfortunate day of the first crime, some hard nosed criminal attached a sign onto the back of Gobber’s anorak. The sign read :

Gobber smells. Yell if, you agree.

Consequently, a shouting mob stampeded the promenade with Gobber in front believing his own personal charisma was causing the racket. Not that Gobber doesn’t have personal charisma, you understand. Top crime correspondent, Ambrose Pimple charged through the crowd, whipped his windcheater off, flung it over Gobber’s head and made for the Drowning Fish Café. Peace soon ensued but there was more to follow.

The next attack on the unfortunate Gobber was the advertisement in the Groaningsea Gazette. A ruthless criminal masqueraded as Gobber and placed an advert in this very newspaper. We have to be dealing with the professional underworld, otherwise how would the fake advert have gotten past Doris the cleaning lady who sells advertising space on her day off? The advert, which looked very impressive with our new style headings read

Residents of Groaningsea be on the alert! Strange happenings are taking place on your very own doorstep. It is thought that a master criminal is on the loose. It is not an ordinary criminal, that much is known. How do we know this? Ace crime reporter, Ambrose Pimple has been on the scene of these extraordinary happenings. Stone gargoyles with secret messages on them have been left on doorsteps in the town. Ambrose Pimple has made the decision not to disclose the secret messages at this point in time as it could cause a spate of copycat crimes. As an ace crime reporter, Ambrose Pimple has delved into the mind of the ruthless criminal over the years. He has to admit, he has not come across such a cunning criminal mastermind of this type before. “The key question,” says Pimple, “is what is so unique about this crime?” He understands that the ordinary public will not be able to answer this penetrating question and so he explains: “The ordinary criminal takes from us. We have all been there when our garden gnomes have disappeared. However, The Gargoyle Gangster, as he will be referred to from now on, has us on the run. He plays with our law abiding minds – he doesn’t whiz our washing from our lines or even pilfer our plants, NO! The Gargoyle Gangster leaves his threatening mark upon our doorsteps. ”

What a day to be on a mission! The ice cold rain is launching itself from the heavy, black clouds of January but the wind is blowing it in all directions. This means that when the rain hits you, it stings and is freezing cold. No-one is about in Groaningsea except one lone shopper who is losing the fight with her umbrella which has been blown inside out.

A lone light shines in the Groaningsea Gazette office. It is hard to peer through the windows as past stories are pasted all over them like wallpaper. It does not reach to the top of the windows though; the light bulb glows dully, sad and naked without a light shade.

I open the door slowly; it creaks loudly as if to warn the occupant of the office that a stranger is entering. He is there, an emperor in a small seaside town. He waves his thin, bony fingers dismissively at me without looking up. He is typing quickly and has the telephone trapped between his head and shoulders whilst he squeaks quickly into it. I hold my breath; it must be a news breaking story.

“Right, Vera – I’ll pick my bacon sandwich up at twelve if you can have it ready, you cheeky minx,” says Pimple. I am not sure what has shocked me the most – his high pitched voice or the fact that he sees Vera from the Drowning Fish Café as a cheeky minx, whatever that means. He carries on stabbing the machine. It whirrs and clicks in a strangled, tinny fashion, almost as if protesting about Pimple’s fingers prodding it at ten miles an hour.

After what seems like a lifetime to a boy desperate to speak, I realise that he has forgotten about me. I am not sure what to do. Should I go out and come back in again, thereby announcing myself? It’s a bit difficult, because if I open the door it will creak, he will look up and he will think that I am leaving. Unless, I open the door and pretend that I have just got there. At first, this seems like a good idea but if the handle squeaks when I press it down, the door will still be closed and I will look like a person who has no idea whether he is coming or going. I wish I had my deer stalker with me. If I make the wrong impression on Pimple, he will not do what I want him to do.

“Are you going to stand there forever, boy or have you something to say. Don’t waste my time now. I am a very busy journalist,” he says and rises from his chair. He comes towards me. The bottom of his cardigan swings as he walks. It has a hole in it.

“You are very lucky that I am granting you an audience boy, I am not simply a journalist – I am also the editor of the Groaningsea Gazette. There, I bet I am the most important person you have ever met. Am I boy? Don’t be embarrassed,” he says and hikes himself up on the front of his desk. The sole of his shoe is loose and it flaps as he crosses his legs.

I clear my throat, ready to surprise him with my newsworthy story.

“Of course, I won’t always be in Groaningsea. Oh no! I’m destined for greater things. One of these days, I’ll get a county newspaper,” he sighs extravagantly. “Now what do you want? I’m busy.”

My mouth opens and then closes again. Nothing will come out. I make a decision. I take the large, brown envelope, I’ve borrowed from dad and pull it from under my jacket. I take the photograph out and slap it down into Pimple’s hand. He looks down and frowns.

“So what’s this?” he asks.

“That, Mr Pimple, is a photograph I took at Boris Death’s old house the other day,” I say. Pimple’s normally white face starts to colour and a large lump of dandruff falls onto his shoulder. His cracked lips stretch out across his face. I think he is smiling.

“Is this an exclusive boy?” he asks as he walks behind his desk and sits down.

My most exciting moment has arrived. I’m down in the cellar where I have my very own dark room. I can see you’re wondering what a kid like me is doing with a room for developing photos in a cellar. I’d better explain. Dad is a serial hobby killer. Every few months, he finds a book in his second hand bookshop which introduces him to something new to become obsessed by. A gleam of madness shines in his eyes and he tells Mum he has to buy a camera or join Pig Fancier’s Anonymous immediately.

A couple of years ago, it was photography and he had to have a dark room in the cellar. His argument was that his photographs were going to be so unique, there was no way he could wait a full week for them at Plopson’s the Chemist on the High Street. Mum eventually agreed to the dark room if Dad would teach me how to develop photographs. Dad came up with the argument that I could not be responsible enough to use the chemicals required. Mum said that if I wasn’t responsible enough to be let loose in a dark room, then there was no way that Dad was anywhere near responsible enough. Dad and I choose the equipment for the dark room together.

After three weeks, Dad found a book on Astrology in his shop. He dumped photography and the dark room and started looking out for fellow Pisceans to enjoy water colours with, whatever they are.

Anyway, backstory over with. My moments of glory have finally arrived. I look fondly at my washing line of developed photos which are pegged up to dry. Two photos stand out for me. They are virtually the same but I am not one to be troubled by minor details. I can see a candle flame and behind it is the face of the ghost from Boris Death’s old house. She has to be dead; nobody living could look remotely like that. I collapse down onto the high stool as I realise what I have done. The creature might know I have taken an image of it and jump on me whilst I’m in bed. My stomach turns somersaults and I gulp loudly. I can not allow fear to take me over. I must think how I can benefit from the spooky image staring at me.

My mind is blurred, I cannot think logically. I will have to resort to putting my deerstalker on. I have a notion it warms my brain and sends it springing into action. I pace the room, I stop, I stare at the photos. I need to make them work to the very best of my advantage. What I want is publicity. Ambrose Pimple of the Groaningsea Gazette is the most obvious choice. If I allow him to publish the photograph and run a story on my escapades, I will become The Groaningsea Ghosthunter. The public will be finally fighting for The Alternative Detective’s services. I can’t go wrong.

My mind is like a hare speeding through the open fields, I see the faces of The Toad, Ferret and Snot. The fools will think again before whopping someone as brave as me.